So We're Driving Around
by Stray the Metallic Imp
Summary: When Joe Cabot still isn’t too sure about the newest guy on the job, he sends Orange on a little side job with Mr. Blonde to see where the kid’s head is at. Freddy then finds that he’s getting more than he bargained for. Warnings for: Slash, crime and etc


Title: So We're Driving Around...

Rating: Mature for that thing adults do behind closed doors.

Pairing: Mr. Blonde/Mr. Orange. Or more accurately, Mr. Blonde/Freddy Newandyke. It depends on your perspective.

Summary: When Joe Cabot still isn't too sure about the newest guy on the job, he sends Orange on a little side job with Mr. Blonde to see where the kid's head is at. Freddy then finds that he's getting more than he bargained for.

Word Count: 21, 436

Disclaimer: I own nothing, I earn nothing.

Warnings: Explicit profanity and graphic sexual content.

A/N: Blatant Blonde/Orange smut written as requested for acidic_flower and beta read by fitz_carraldo over at LiveJournal.

"Don't know where the fuck anythin' is anymore," Joe mumbled to himself in the dimming light of his office, patting down his jacket and then searching stiffly through the pockets concealed inside, beneath the silk lining. "This getting older thing, somebody needs to do somethin' about it. They can cure just about anything but cancer and AIDS these days, you'd think someone'd do something about goddamned age." After a short fishing expedition, a silver lighter produced itself and he shook his head, lighting the cigarette balanced between his thick lips.

"People've been tryin' to do something about that 'long as there've been people." Larry chuckled, taking a drag on the filter of his cigarette as he reclined carefully, a glass of scotch held loosely in one hand as the crystal caught and reflected the light of the room, small specks of light shining back, occasionally catching and creating small shards of color on the fabric of the man's shirt. "Hell, it all comes down to the same thing doesn't it? Nobody wants to get old, it's all about keeping young, fit, clear headed. Goddamn fountain of youth."

"Don't I know it, Junior. Ain't all gone yet," he tapped his temple slowly with his free hand, the other plucking the cigarette carefully from the folds of his mouth, "But just enough. Hell, even with a fountain of youth, won't do a damn thing for the way things've changed. Even the damn game, it all comes down to the generation playing. Thieves these days, they ain't the old sort like you an' me. N' Mr. Blue, at that. Young bucks runnin' around with one hand on their gun and the other on their dick. That's all they are."

Larry dissolved into rolling chuckles, heavy and warm in his throat and chest and Joe held up a hand, fingers swaying as his head shook in turn. "No, no, I'm serious here. Sound like an old man talkin' like this, but I'm damned serious. Young guns these days -- they're not the same. Can't keep their heads, get skittish, get trigger happy or piss their pants when things get hot."

"If I recall," the other man interrupted amiably, a wry grin splitting his face as he lifted his scotch halfway to his mouth, "Half the guys on this job are young guns, as you so aptly call 'em."

Joe shook his head slowly, finger leveling itself as Larry and holding place. "See, I know that. But Eddie's my own boy, I know how he works, just as old sort as you an' me. And Pink, known him since he was just a snot nosed punk, so I know him. Hell, Blonde's practically in the damned family, him and Eddie been thick as thieves since before either of 'em had any cheek fuzz."

Larry was nodding, crystal glass poised at his mouth as he considered the words, watching quietly as Joe fumbled with his lighter and carefully lit the extinguished tip of his cancer stick. Larry mulled Joe's words over, his glass making it to his lips, a small trace of the alcohol touching his tongue. He considered the slick burn of liquor before swallowing, slow and contemplative.

"What about the kid? Orange?"

Joe nodded, a gesture empty of anything but simple action. "Not sure. Kid's fresh, don't know him too well. Hard to peg him straight away. Can't be sure how much of his referral was just one of his buddies helpin' out, how much was real talk. Kinda hard to figure him. He's young, the most I can say. Got plenty a' potential."

"The story he told at the bar - " Larry began, only to be interrupted with a wave of the elder's hand.

"Was good. Not sayin' it wasn't, it doesn't prove anything. Shit, you know just as well as me that these stories get bigger the more they get told, like damned fish tales. Hell, how much of that was real and how much was imagination we don't have no way of knowing. For all we know, he was dealing with a security guard and a lost beagle in that men's room. Might've been spaced out on the reefer he was sellin'." The cigarette tip had gone out again. Joe snapped his lighter impatiently, an expression of frustration puckering his leathery face. "S'why I'm sending him on a little side job with Blonde."

"You're what?" Larry replied with a subtle bodily jerk, legs uncrossing and his foot planting itself firmly on the floor, knees shifting as he began sitting up a little straighter. "What're you talkin' about Joe? What's he need a side job for? What you've got planned for us is enough for a rookie."

"Stale piece of crap," Joe muttered under his breath, stubbing out the smoldering tobacco in a crystal ashtray. "How the damn hell… Is it too much to ask for a decent cigarette?" He fished out another and peered up at the other man with small crinkly eyes. "It's cuz he's a rookie. Young blood, like we've been talkin' about, damnit. We don't know how this kid is under pressure, and even a small hitch in a job like this heist can turn into a big hitch. Blonde'll take care of him, figure out what the boy can take, how he sweats." Joe shifted restrictedly in his leather chair and made a weary sound of irritation low in his throat, like dog drawing itself up from soaking up the heat of the sun while lying limply on a lawn, the old man began another search through the various pockets of his rich suit, patting himself down slowly as he stared off into space, mouth moving slightly as he mumbled wordless thoughts under his breath.

"Ah, hell, Joe." Larry rumbled, rubbing the day's stubble on his jaw carefully. "Sending him out, out of the blue? Kid didn't sign up for that. And hell, if you wanted someone to check him out and get a feel for him, you coulda asked me to do it."

Even as he spoke, Joe was shaking his head. "N'ah, not this time around. Blonde's been doing some small things for me an' Eddie anyway. This is something little, out of town, enough to test Orange out and see what he can do. He'll get paid for it, so think of it as a bit of a training exercise. And like I've said, I've known Blonde since he was just a kid. He'll do the job right and good, and show the young gun how things're supposed to go down. Good learning experience for him. Hell, if the kid is skittish, we need to know now. If he can't handle the job, or if we need to give him a different position. We can't afford mistakes on this one."

Larry's expression was closed and pensive as he took a quiet sip of scotch, focusing on the warm burn of the alcohol streaming slowly down his throat, settling hot in his belly.

"Damned cigarettes," Joe rumbled absently, holding up another. "Genuine Turkish tobacco, A grade. Best shit you can get your hands on." He shook his head. "And what do I get? God-damned stale piece a shit."

***

When Freddy woke up with a small spastic jerk, he immediately couldn't remember what had woken him. His mind was still heavy and muddled, and his pillow warm and inviting, and as he settled back in, snuggling down into the blankets and shifting his head to eye the clock with bleary eyes, he took the fact it wasn't the alarm into consideration. He had a meeting with Holdaway later on the roof of a random hotel. Where the hell the man was coming up with the locations he would never know, but he secretly wondered if there was some kind of undercover police meeting point list or hand guide that nobody had taken the liberty to fill him in on. But as soon as these thoughts struck him, he groaned low, his heavy eye lids slipping closed and his face collapsing shamelessly back into the pillow with a grunt of approval towards the instant comfort.

Not a moment later, there was a loud knock at his door, once - twice - and thrice, three times of hard knuckles rapping against wood and he groaned in both aggravation and confusion, his head lifting to glare suspiciously at the cheerful 8:13 blinking back at him in bold digital red that glowed in the dimmed bedroom.

The knocking took place two more times, the second while he was pulling up a pair of blue jeans over his hips and the third as he walked through the living area to stare at the door with a frown. Each time, the knocking was the same, three even raps against the wood, loud and clear, unhurried.

There was nobody coming over today, and he knew it. Anyone who would be coming over would have called, and door to door salesmen knew better than to come at eight in the morning or to go into buildings that didn't require being buzzed into. As he stood, the knocking took place again, once - twice - three times, still unhurried, still loud and even without any hint that could disclose the identity of the uninvited guest.

In the back of his mind, Freddy thought of the story about the last undercover cop that had tried to get past Mr. White and his group. That guy got found out, got shot and killed along with an apartment of people. If he'd been found out, wouldn't the guys have waited until he was someplace with them, at the warehouse or out planning the heist? It'd make more sense than showing up on his doorstep in the morning to shoot him in the head and walk away. It'd probably wake up the neighbors, unless they had a silencer. But considering these guys worked for Cabot, that wasn't too difficult to imagine. Though, probably less cleaning up would probably be expected of them. Just shoot and walk away, easy as pie.

Slowly, he picked up one of the smaller hand guns lying on the dining table, loaded but not cocked. Didn't matter, it was better than being empty handed in the long run, and easy enough to hide behind his back or chuck to the side if it turned out to be some little skirt with pig tails and prepubescent pimples trying to sell him some Thin Mints. Though if Girl Scouts were trying to hit people up at eight in the morning, then they were either getting really fucking desperate or working on upping their game

Moving to unhook the chain, he paused and reconsidered, then unlocked the door instead and jerked open the door, peeking through the crack just above the taut pulled chain and half expecting to see the barrel of a gun waiting for him.

Instead, he was looking at Mr. Blonde, looking bright eyed and bushy tailed with an eyebrow cocked like a pilot's and an expression of smooth disinterest. If he had a gun, it wasn't obvious and well hidden, but while that didn't soothe Freddy's nerves by any amount it did make him raise a brow of his own.

"Mornin' Sunshine." He rumbled lightly, cocked eyebrow lifting a little more and his hands dipping to hook his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans. "Shouldn't big boys be out of bed by now and ready for school?"

Freddy was silent for a long moment, not comprehending the surrealism of suddenly having the man at his door, and his wariness of a trap about to be sprung making the small hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stand a little straighter. "What're you doing here?"

Blonde smiled slow and lazy like, sort of like a Southern gentleman. "Joe's got a job for us. Well," he paused, his head tipping to the side and the little smile stretching a little further and creating small dimples that hollowed into his cheeks. "A job for me, you're playing tag along."

A small creeping feeling settled itself along Freddy's spine, his chin tilting upwards as the confusion overlapped with the paranoia he got when he eyed the smile on Blonde's lips. "I didn't hear anything' about this." He said, allowing his skepticism to bleed through just enough to be a natural response. "Why didn't anybody call and tell me?"

"Maybe you were asleep," Blonde said calmly, eyes darting to the crack between the door and door frame, his head moving as if to get a better look inside, despite Freddy's head blocking anything from being within sight. "How's the missus? She in bed too?" His lip curled into what Freddy thought was supposed to be teasing, or perhaps indecisive and oddly knowing, but he wasn't entirely sure. Whatever it was, it made him shift his feet, grateful for the door blocking how disconcerted he appeared from the criminal's view.

"She's not here," he lied easily. "She's at work."

"You sure about that?" He smiled.

Freddy frowned, hoping that it'd be interpreted him as simply not liking the idea of someone insinuating that his fake wife was off somewhere he didn't know of or approve of. Last thing he needed was someone knowing that not only was he lying about being married, but that his non existent significant other was also apparently cheating on him. Or something along those lines. He tried to read Blonde's face, see if there was more than him just being an ass, but if it was there, he couldn't see it. The man was blank, clear and clean of anything that might give away the meaning, the thoughts inside his head carefully hidden. Freddy was uneasy, not just with what was going on, and possibly planned, but that there was a man who seemed so naturally unreadable. He himself had to be aware of himself constantly, to know what his face was showing, what was in his posture like, what was in his tone. He had to hyper sensitive to everything about himself, but here in front of him was a guy who managed to be completely unreadable as easily as he stood upright.

"Keep that bullshit to yourself."

Blonde didn't say anything, didn't nod, didn't give anything away. Just stood quietly, taking it in and then said, "Well, you go leave her a note. We're going out of town, probably won't be back 'til late tonight, if things go quick."

He was quiet, a silence stretching between them as neither budged and Freddy mulled over the story with rising concern, but Blonde raised his eyebrows in a small movement, his expression reading clearly as a 'Well?', slight lines forming across the previously smooth skin of his forehead as the rest of him remained quiet and stoic.

For a guy possibly hired to take him out, he almost looked as innocent as a guy asking for directions to the nearest fill-up station.

Freddy still wasn't convinced, something screamed at him that it wasn't quite right. That it was wrong, and that Nice Guy would have called if they had a job they wanted him to go on. Something that required driving around alone with the space cadet. But, as suspicious as he was, he couldn't risk saying no, because if it was something Joe wanted him on, then he had to go. He just hoped that the place out of town they were headed to wasn't a shallow grave that he was going to be expected to kneel before. Hell, he could see it already, like out of one of the old crime movies that used to be played late at night on television during the summers. He used to sneak downstairs when his parents were in bed and sink down into the old sofa and watch some dumb-ass punk who double crossed the wrong bunch of crooks get led straight to his death and kneel down in front of a pit of fresh dug earth, guys with bad acting and cheap cigars clamped between their teeth leveling a gun at the fool's head. "You really thought you'd get away huh, Sunny Jim?" They'd say, or something along those lines, and either the fool would be brave and dumb, or scared and cowardly, begging for his life and crying for mercy before a bullet went through his skull. Always execution style, like in the old war films his dad and grandpa liked to watch after Easter dinner every year. Freddy used to love those movies. He'd sit in rapt attention in the dark, thumb nail between his teeth as he hung on every word and every motion and gesture of the bad acting, waiting to see who'd be smart or who'd be dumb and go to his waiting grave.

"I'll be right out," he muttered, snapping the door shut without warning and leaning heavily against it, his gaze turning to the mirror and his own reflection which greeted him from the shined surface, the small hand gun held so tightly in his grip that his knuckles started to slowly ache from the pressure being applied.

He ran a hand through his hair, the air kept up tight inside his lungs escaping him in a low slow breath.

A job. A job he had no warning of, and out of town at that.

Something about that just didn't sit right. Blonde seemed like the dangerous sort, not like an animal like some guys could be, with sharp smiles and dangerous eyes. Nothing generic, nothing typical in a bad guy crook, hired and out for blood. Just something a bit off about him. Maybe the way he combed his hair, maybe the cheap aftershave he wore. Maybe the way he smiled like he had some genuine old school charm. It just didn't sit right. There was a twist in his gut, how nonchalant the man was when he stood outside another man's home. Not acting like it was a sudden thing, but like they'd made the plan to go on a trip weeks ago and was amused by his buddy's poor memory. Like everything was cool, everything completely calm and normal and there was nothing amiss.

It had to be the biggest pile of shit he'd ever dealt with.

But on the offhand, if he had been found out, it'd make more sense for them to have called him. They wouldn't want him to think something was up, they wouldn't want him paranoid and cautious, they'd want him comfortable and sure of himself, sure that everything was straight as they sent him to his death. Hell, Joe was a damned smart guy, he'd know that. If he was going to catch a rat he'd know how to do it, and do it good, so more likely than not somebody just forgot to fill him in, maybe Eddie too busy off with some work of his own or fucking some stripper he'd met, and didn't get around to making the call. Or maybe they wanted to see how willing he was to trust them, to put his life in the hands of some stranger. One of their guys. A man he was expected to work with in the long run anyway.

He still didn't like it, he decided with a groan, pushing himself away from the door and staring aimlessly around his apartment, arms loose by his sides and his shoulders tense. And he was sure that Holdaway was going to be pretty damn un-amused.

***

A long car ride in the California summer could be absolutely vile if the right circumstances and aspect were mixed together. Sitting in a strange car, with a strange guy, listening to Sugarloaf croon about their green eyed broad as the backs of his arms sweated and stuck to the material of the seats and the air condition dickered and struggled, giving short bursts of cool air and then lapsing until there was nothing but a smothering gust of heat that settled around the temples and throat, making the mouth dry and beads of moisture to form and gather, not enough to drip as a decent sweat but to itch and irritate the skin and threaten to get into the eyes and sting. This, mixed with the small gust of cooled air carried through crack of the slightly lowered window, and a still body that made no movement other than the curve of his arms as he steered, or his thumb tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel in vague harmony with the radio, was enough of a combination to have Freddy sitting still as a statue, his breath warm and tight in his chest as a cigarette balanced between his fingers up near the crack in the window, his eyes glued on the seemingly endless stretch of road ahead of them as he wondered if there was a possibility that at the end he was going to walk up and be greeted by his own demise. That, perhaps, it was a set up, that he wasn't being paranoid, that perhaps the man tapping along to the radio beside him was going to put a bullet through his head, even execution style, and leave him for the coyotes. To let nature handle the game of hide the body. Or if there was a hole already dug, just big enough to dump him in. Or if they were just going the simple route; a dumpster and lighter fluid. So many possibilities, each one worse than the last, all perfectly plausible and even possible, stretched out ahead of him and looming in the distance where he could see it, but not reach and grasp the conclusion with certainty.

The longer he thought about it, and the longer they sat in silence, the more sure of himself he became that it wasn't an innocent job he'd been sent to join in on. That while it have made sense for Eddie to call and to keep him assured and calm, that even smart guys could make mistakes. Or they wanted him to panic. They wanted him to see it coming, to shit his pants waiting for it, watching it come at him and knowing he was stuck on a track he wouldn't be able to get back off of. It left a sticky thickness in his throat, to have such certainty and such uncertainty at the same time, to be so indecisive yet so sure that something had gone wrong. Joe hadn't bought into him. The man could probably smell a rat, and he wasn't stupid. Or blind. Freddy knew he didn't exactly look like a cop, but he didn't look like a career criminal either. Despite his bravado, his tone, his infinite amount of practice, of having Holdaway and other officers smacking him upside the skull, getting his shit straight; knowing how to walk, talk, where to look, how cocky to be, how snaky he should be. How to act like he was an up rising star in the organized crime industry, how to sound tough and look smooth, how to be a bad motherfucker.

"You ever been to Europe?" Blonde said suddenly, startling Freddy out of his thoughts and making him to turn and watch the man with veiled wariness.

"What?"

"Europe." He repeated, not looking away from the road, as though it was obvious. "My brother's been over there. Traveling, seeing the sights, taking in the culture or whatever it is you do when you go to Europe. Says it's great."

"…ah." Freddy said, getting it, but still unnerved all the same. "Yeah, no, I've never been there. I've been to Canada, and once to Mexico, but that's about as far as I've gotten." He waited for the conversation to continue, but as he watched Blonde drive the man said nothing, was just quiet and drove in silence as though nothing had been said at all. As the silence stretched, and the song on the radio changed to another seventies pop song that he hadn't heard since he'd first started shaving, he turned his head back forward and then to the window as he watched the scenery pass them by.

"You won't get shit out of Mexico or Canada." Blonde said suddenly, and Freddy frowned and turned back, wondering why the fuck the man had taken so long, making him think the subject had been dropped. "There's no culture. You have'ta go to Europe to find culture. It's where everything is. Art. Music. All of it."

If Freddy was honest, he'd say that Blonde hadn't struck him as much of an artistic kind of guy. As a matter of fact, despite what he was saying, he still didn't.

"Europe is expensive, man." He said, eyebrows raising. "Maybe one of these days, or something, but right now I can barely pay off my lease." That much was true. "S'why I needed this job with Joe. Get my cut, I'll move on up. Move out of that shit hole I'm at."

"My brother saw the Mona Lisa." Blonde mentioned amiably, breezing past what Freddy had said as if he hadn't said it at all. The corners of his eyes were crinkled, like he was smiling, though his mouth was still a straight line.

"Yeah?"

"He went and he saw her. You know what he said? He looked at her for a good long time, just lookin' the whole painting over, and then he said 'Shit, this is just an old painting.' Because that's what it is, just an old picture of some brunette. People act like Jesus Christ himself wiped his ass with it, but it's just some picture. It's what all art is, just pictures. But their cultured."

Freddy found himself nodding, even though Blonde wasn't looking at him. It was a sentiment he could agree with, a bit, but he figured there had to be more to it than that. It wouldn't be so important if there wasn't more to it, wouldn't be so famous and priceless. People didn't treat things like that if they were, in fact, just a picture. He didn't exactly know his art history, didn't really know much more than the big names; Michelangelo, Picasso, Van Gogh, and all those famous genius types. If their works were just pictures, just that and nothing more, then they wouldn't be worth the pedestal people had placed them on. They just wouldn't be worth it. People were stupid, but they weren't that stupid.

"Yeah, I guess so."

He waited, the sounds of the car, the wind screaming through the window, the crooning and poppy jingles of seventies hits on the radio, even the rumble of the motor suddenly seeming quiet as he waited for the other man to speak. But he didn't, his thumb was still tapping away, his eyes focused on the road at he guided them forward, and Freddy decided that the conversation must really be over. It was annoying, just that small snippet of conversation having pulled him from his thoughts, away from what was possibly waiting for them at their destination, and he felt a twist in his gut as he sat in silence, absently flicked the worn out and smoldered cigarette butt out the window and watched it be ripped away by the rushing air from the corner of his eye, and as the radio and sticky heat lulled him back into a meditative stupor, he watched the land pass them by. He began to wonder how much he should be worried. Maybe he really was on his way to get iced. He had a gun, he knew standard hand to hand, he might even have a fighting chance despite a clear difference in size and weight. Or maybe it was exactly as it'd been presented to him, and he'd best take his mind off of it and focus on the task waiting at hand.

A task he still didn't even know the nature of.

God, he hoped that there wasn't someone getting taken care of. Even if it turned out to not be him, which he'd guiltily find to be a relief, he still didn't want to be joining in on someone taking a hit for having crossed Cabot. How the fuck was he supposed to handle that kind of a situation? Tell Holdaway he was sorry, there was nothing he could do, that he had to stay in character? Or get his ass in trouble by trying to play hero and giving himself away as not being quite as much of the tough little shit that he was playing the part of? Either situation, no matter how you decided to look at it, was a bad fucking situation.

Sitting forward, he cringed a little as the back of his arms peeled from the seat, and his eyes darted to follow the movement of Blonde's thumb as it continued to lightly tap along to the radio.

He still hadn't even said where they were going.

Freddy had a feeling that no matter where they ended up and for whatever purpose, he wasn't going to be liking it.

***

It was when they got into town that Freddy's heart had sunk down into his gut and really started thumping. It was in that rolling bellyache meets heartache kind of way. First his heart started beating real quick, practically humming in his chest, and then just plummeted down into the hollow of his stomach. But even as it sank it kept up that wicked pace. It wasn't much longer before that bled away into nervous excitement. It took everything to keep his face blank and smooth, completely devoid of the anxious tension he felt even as he started to feel kind of nauseated and his palms started to sweat. More than once he had to subtly wipe his hands on his jeans.

He had no honest idea of how he managed to keep himself cool and collected around Blonde, even when the bastard lazily steered the car into a drive-way, parked, and killed the engine.

The few moments when the guy just sat there, quiet, not even acknowledging he was there had him nearly strung out on the tension. Freddy felt like he was going to suffocate on it. The possibility that this was the end of the line, that there was no telling what was going to happen. How was it going to go down? Was he going to be taken inside the house, what looked like one of those old houses that got split into three or four separate apartments, maybe into the basement and there'd be someone else waiting? Maybe Blonde was going to do the whole thing himself. Maybe there really was a job and they were paying a house call on some poor bastard. There was simply no possible way that the crook couldn't feel it. The tension was like a pea soup fog on a miserable day. He absolutely had to be able to tell it was there. He could probably smell it in the musty smokiness of the car interior; heavy on the air and rank in his nostrils.

When Blonde got out of the car so did Freddy.

It was unspoken. The 'You follow me' was there, hanging under the surface, and Freddy made himself calm down a bit. On the offhand that he was giving away some of his tension, he needed to be clear headed. Make it look like he was just nervous because he was an amateur. Turn that anxiety into actual excitement. Make it look like he really was a young crook turning professional. He couldn't let it away that he was scared for his life. He wasn't scared. Maybe a little. Anxious that he'd mess up. Scared he'd make a mistake common for rookies. He had to turn his paranoid bullshit into what he should be feeling so he could look it. He couldn't jump to conclusions, he couldn't defend himself immediately and he knew it. Holdaway had pounded that lesson into him with the intensity of a drill instructor. Be the character, be the cover. Keep it going for as long as fucking possible. Don't give yourself away at any moment, even if you're found out. Plead fucking ignorance. Plead ignorance until the bitter end, because even if you have to pull a gun and defend yourself, you want at least someone to believe you may be the real deal. You never know, so you take no chances.

Considering the mantra running through his head, it was pretty anticlimactic compared to the ideas his brain had been shooting at him on the drive there.

The first five minutes they didn't even go inside. Blonde just checked his watch, modestly adjusted himself, and started stretching from being folded up inside the Caddy for so long.

Freddy just leaned against the car and smoked in silence.

They were in a typical urban neighborhood. Nothing special. The house they were parked at was more than halfway down the street. At one end was more houses, at the other was a liquor store and one of the main roads. There was a teenager loitering outside the liquor store, probably hoping to bribe someone into buying him alcohol. The house itself was pretty average. Big, old and ugly. The vinyl siding was dirty and a faded puke green, one of the upper story windows had a crack in it and the apartment window on the left side had a big FOR RENT sign taped up with a phone number written in large block letters. It could have been any house, any street, any town, anywhere. In all honesty, Freddy was almost disappointed. It wasn't even the kind of scumbag hideout you'd expect to see in a cheap crime drama or on Baretta. Too normal, too common, completely natural.

"C'mon." Blonde rumbled. Rather dutifully, Freddy threw down and stepped out the cigarette before following. They slipped on their holsters, armed themselves openly, and walked around back. It was cool, quiet, and while not broad daylight, it was close enough to it.

The apartment they were looking for was at the back of the building and up a cheaply built wooden staircase that looked like maybe five years ago somebody had started to stain it only to give up and walk away. At the top was a door, and Blonde knocked three times. It was almost identical to how he'd knocked on Freddy's door. Perfectly timed, no rhythm. Just knock - knock - and knock. The hard blunt contact of flesh and bone meeting wood with peeling paint.

Unlike at Freddy's apartment, instead of knocking again, he just grabbed the doorknob, gave it a testing twist and then forced the damned thing right open. Freddy watched the spectacle of home invasion quietly and nearly jumped when a heavy palm landed on his shoulder, firmly guiding him up the last step and inside.

"You haven't said what we're -" He started in a whisper, the nervous stomachache hitting him again like a fist to his gut.

"Hush." Said Blonde loudly, cheerfully, holding up a hand. Almost holding up a hand. It was more like a vague and lazy jerk of his wrist down around his side.

There was a sudden loud thump in the next room. The sort of noise typically associated with someone slamming into something. Considering the sudden presence of somebody new in the apartment, Freddy was willing to bet the home renter had banged against a table or counter when he'd heard voices. Maybe was even reaching for a weapon to hold off invaders.

Blonde started walking and Freddy followed him. They turned the corner into what apparently was the living area there was a guy with tussled dark hair scrambling to pull his jeans up skinny hips as he shoved a crack pipe under his futon, a haze of smoke clouding the already dim atmosphere of the crap stacked living room. There were cheap faux bamboo blinds over the windows that were casting a yellowish shade, and an old television was on PBS playing re-runs of the Muppet show with a shitty connection that would flicker as old cereal boxes tried to balance the antennas in place.

"Jesus fucking Christ," the guy yelped when he saw them, going still as his eyes, red rimmed, skimmed over his house guests. His curse broke off at the end, dissolving into a thick smokers' cough that made Freddy's own throat ache in empathy.

"Afternoon, Tommy." Blonde said pleasantly, as if he'd just dropped by like a typical neighborhood guest. "Travis around or you home alone?"

"How the fuck should I know, does it look like he's here? I think he went out to get some fucking smokes or maybe to -" He broke off his rambling, finally having recovered himself and stood up, jeans now in position and just a peek of his boxer-shorts over the waistband. "The fuck, Toothpick? Why're you -- where's Vince?" He ran a hand through his hair, only succeeding in pushing it up more so it stood on end in various directions. He glanced at Freddy, his apprehension bold on his face.

It was like looking at a stereotype for white trash.

"Never you mind about Vince." Blonde waved off, and Freddy hovered behind him, eyebrow having raised as he wondered about the Toothpick nickname. Who the fuck went around getting called Toothpick of all things? Sure, sounded kind of rockabilly when you really thought about it, but seriously. Kind of lame. "We're here to see you and Travis. Now, you sure he ain't home or does my little buddy over here need to take a walk around the premises and make sure he didn't slip in while you were smokin' up?"

Tommy shifted on his feet, just enough for Freddy to have a feeling and take a look towards the shadow of a hallway towards the back, adjacent to where he and Blonde were standing. Blonde seemed to get the same feeling, and without a word jerked his head in that direction. Cops, crooks, whatever the fuck have you. It was a universal instruction, and Freddy nodded. He placed a hand openly near his gun and started across the room, first giving a look to the white trash, to Blonde and then making his way cautiously but purposely towards that pathetic little depression of space.

He may have looked sure of himself, but he was so tense that his legs and arms were starting to cramp.

The hallway itself was bare. There was a closet, which he checked, and it was empty aside from some musty jackets and some dust collecting sports gear that probably hadn't seen the light of day since moving day. There was a bathroom, the door open just a sliver, enough to give him a slight view of a shower and the edge of a chipped sink. He walked quietly, straining to listen for any movement inside, but also to hear anything transpiring between Tommy and Blonde. He couldn't hear them speaking, in fact, all he could hear was his own leveled breathing and the heavy thud of his heart beating within his chest. A hard thud, thud, thud that rose to his throat and ears, the pounding of the blood overshadowing the sound of his breath, of the sole of his shoes on the carpet, even the slight rustle of fabric as he drew his gun and held it poised in front of him.

He slammed the door open and it swung loosely on the hinges.

There was nobody inside.

Just a small, cramped, dirty bathroom. Shower, sink, toilet. A couple pairs of dirty boxers on the floor between the sink base and the scale. Sighing, partially out of the ridiculousness of his own tension, he slipped his gun back into place and ran a hand through his hair and away from the oily sweat that was beading across his scalp and forehead. It was hot inside the apartment, and rank with smells and smoke. He hadn't shared an apartment for awhile, and the near suffocating smells of smoke and the overwhelming multiple male essence was starting to give him a headache.

Back in the living room, things hadn't changed all that much. Blonde was leaning, seemingly quite comfortably, against the wall and Tommy had caught a seat on the edge of a chair and was glancing between the floor and Blonde himself.

"Didn't find anybody." Orange said as he walked back in, stopping midway across the room and staying put.

Blonde nodded and turned his sights back to Tommy.

"You got any idea why we're here?" He held up a hand as the guy started to sputter a response. "Now, calm down. Don't get all excitable. Me and Orange over there had a long drive. We're dog tired. You know what happens when you get excited around a tired dog? It gets annoyed. Frustrated, even. Then it starts getting excitable itself. You know what comes after that? Well, what usually happens when a dog is ticked off and starts getting excitable?" Tommy started to sputter off another reply, but Blonde stopped him again.

"Orange, what happens when a tired, annoyed dog gets excitable?"

"It bites."

"That's right," He nodded, "It bites. Now, personally, I'm not much in the mood for biting. I'm a bit tired from that nice long drive we had to get here. But Tommy, you give me a reason, and I will. I'll bite like a scrap yard dog. And I bet if you get me riled enough to bite, that'll get my associate over here all excitable too. Now, what you really need to think about here before you open that mouth again, is how you feel about having two tired, ornery dogs in your living room, who could get excited and start biting at any time."

Tommy wasn't looking quite as comfortable anymore, he was nodding his head, watery blue eyes darting between the two men as his head just kept moving side to side. It was kind of silly looking, to watch him. Still high, still half dressed, hair sticking every which way and his chin just jerking up and down, left and right, as he made a decision for two men with guns.

Freddy was starting to get a slight sinking feeling down in his gut again. This one wasn't quite as strong as the previous ones. He wasn't sure why they were here quite yet, but the scenario was taking shape. Maybe these guys owed money, or were looking to buy something, and for whatever reason they needed to get scared. There was no other word for what Blonde was doing. Hell, if Freddy himself hadn't been on Blonde's side of it, his heart would have been in his mouth at the moment. The pleasantries were still there. They, the intruders, were still seemingly cool, calm, and relaxed. It was Tommy who was tense. He was the one who looked like he was expecting a gun to his forehead. And maybe he was. In fact, he probably was. Freddy figured he would have been had he been in his place. Barely half an hour ago he was expecting to be in his place.

Whoever Travis was he was probably going to be happy he was missing out on this. Tommy on the other hand, was glancing just a bit at the windows every so often, just a bit, hardly noticeable, but enough to belay his desire for someone to show up. Hoping for a neighbor to stop by, maybe a fellow junkie wanting to drop in and get high for awhile. Someone, anyone, to interrupt what was happening in his apartment as he sat scared and outnumbered.

"So, we gonna talk like a couple of sensible grown men, or you gonna get riled up? Remember, you get riled up, then we get riled up. But if we get riled up, we might bite. Do you want us to bite, Tommy?"

Tommy kept shaking his head, the line of muscle at his jaw tense. As Freddy watched him, really took him in, he realized that the junkie probably wasn't that much older than himself. Maybe somewhere between himself and Blonde.

"No, man."

"Good," Blonde nodded, rubbing a hand over the slight scratch of the day's stubble appearing on his jaw line. "Now, I was hoping to talk to not just you, but to Travis too. But I s'pose if he wont be gracing us with his presence, I'll just have to lay down the facts with you, and hope you'll be kind enough to pass the message along. Can you handle that?"

Tommy nodded adamantly.

"Good." He said sounding pleased as he pushed himself off of the wall and nodded once to himself. "That's good."

"You see, Tommy. You came into an agreement with Joe. And from the way thing's been looking, he's kept his end of the bargain and you and your buddy Travis haven't made up your end." Tommy started to say something but Blonde held up a hand to silence him. By this point, Freddy was paying even closer attention. If ever there was a moment to be a rat, then this had to be it. Hearing not only details of the crime he was in on, but whatever other affairs Cabot had tucked away under his belt with low life scumbags like this Travis guy and Tommy. Crack addicts with White Castle burger boxes on their floor and a shitty television reception. If he hadn't been so focused on the now he'd have been mentally practicing how he'd be relaying everything back to Holdaway.

"Now, Joe helped you guys out. Joe doesn't help just anybody out, Tommy. You know that. You can't take his generosity for granted. He's a busy man. A generous man. But you start misusing his generosity, it starts to get pretty ugly. Particularly for you and your buddy."

Blonde breathed deep through his nose and leisurely removed his gun from where it was situated. Freddy didn't move, not directly, but his eyes locked on the other man and he paid further attention, his gaze following his fingers and his pulse picking up every time his fingers even seemed to get close to the safety or the trigger. The same seemed to be said for Tommy, though he looked more like a startled rabbit. He wasn't even trying to cover up his fear. It was like he'd suddenly been drenched in it, it was raw and stark on his face.

"Now, as I recall the situation as I was told," Blonde said calmly, taking a seat in an old armchair and having his gun hang heavy in his hand between his knees. Loose but not too loose. "You owe some money, is that right? You and your buddy got in a bit of trouble with one of Marcellus Wallace's guys right? Joe cashed in a favor to get you out of it. Travis is related right? Distantly I think." He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, "Ah, that's right. Eddie's cousin's brother-in-law's nephew or some shit like that. Hell if I remember. But you guys were in a nick, and Joe got you out of it. But he wanted it know it was not just a mercy act, you were gonna owe him. Work or cash. Course you couldn't do him any work, you're a couple of junkies, what can you do for him? No professionalism, can't handle a gun, can hardly fuckin' think straight. So he asked for a modest payment. And as I hear it, it's been about a year, and no payment."

Blonde shook his head and fixed a look on the junkie.

"Now, that just isn't gonna fly, Tommy. When you owe a debt, you pay it on time. Didn't your mother ever teach you that?"

Tommy nodded, but he seemed to not know if he should be. The way his chin and head were jerking, it was almost as if he couldn't decide whether he should be nodding, shaking his head or pleading for some act of mercy to leave him be and get back to normalcy and his crack pipe.

"C'mon Tommy, you guys have the money?"

"I don't - I dunno. We've been saving up, I swear we have Toothpick. I swear to fucking God. I don't handle it though, Travis, he don't -- he don't trust me with the money so you'd have to - " Blonde cut him off, another brief raise of his hand.

"Hold up there, cowboy." He said, chidingly. "You have the money, or you don't. Which is it?"

"I dunno, I don't - Travis would know --" He was cut off again.

"Come on, Tommy. You're starting to get excited. You're getting me excited. Yes or no. Do you have the money?"

"I don't --- No. I don't, no. No, I don't think we do. Not yet! We will! We've been saving up and we almost do, I swear to fucking God, Toothpick, I swear to fucking God."

Blonde leaned back in the chair, absently turning the gun over and between his hands as he watched Tommy with a look. With what Freddy could see of it, that was the only description of it. It almost reminded him of a teacher, some kind of authority figure faced with a stupid kid and a dilemma, and not entirely sure how to go about remedying the problem.

"Well, I guess if you don't have it, you don't have it."

Tommy sat forward, eyes clouded but earnest. "Really? I mean, c'mon man, we're good for it. But you gotta understand, we just need time. I'm sure we almost got it. Just a bit longer. You could leave a message for Travis, I'll give it to him, and we'll get this worked out."

"A message." Blonde murmured thoughtfully, nodding to himself. "A message. That's a good idea right there. We can just leave Travis a message, go home, tell Joe it's being sorted out, and when it's done? It's done. Water under the bridge. What d'ya say, Orange? That sound like a good idea to you?"

"Sounds just peachy to me."

Blonde nodded. "Hear that, Tommy? All sounds peachy. Looks like we can work things out after all."

It was like a physical weight lifted itself off of Tommy's shoulders. He stopped slouching, sat a bit straighter and there was a hopeful gleam to the dark bloodshot hollows of his eyes. It was hard to believe someone so pathetic was really worth any bit of effort on Cabot's part. The guy was likely to get AIDS from a dirty needle at some point, or OD on something, smoke himself down into a stupor or some kind. A knotted gnarled branch of a human being, sallow greasy and bony. How he could be honestly worth the trip was beyond Freddy's comprehension. All those hours plastered to the seat of a car thinking he might be on the way to his own death, and it came down to this little wreck of white trash urban suburbia.

Blonde was standing up, and Tommy moving to stand as well.

"So, is that it? I mean, what should I tell Travis when he gets back? Or do you want to write down the message or something like that?"

Blonde smiled a slow pleasant smile, and Freddy felt something twist in his gut even before the words were said. "Actually, I had a better idea. When it comes to issues as sensitive as money, I think it takes a bit more than words to deliver a message properly. Words, you know, they don't mean all that much."

He rubbed his jaw slowly. "Orange. Take our buddy Tommy here and shoot out his kneecaps."

The reactions of the two men were virtually identical. Both turned startled eyes to the man, though they were already looking at him so it wasn't so much turned, and simply stared for a long moment of terse, heavy silence. Tommy seemed to be unable to formulate words, his pink mouth gaped and his lower lip wobbled pathetically, and his knees visibly quivered, threatening to give out and send him back into a seated position on the edge of the chair of where he'd been perched throughout the discussion..

Freddy wasn't much better, but he managed to gather himself quickly and utter a throaty "You sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Shoot them out. We want a real message here. Something that'll get Travis' attention and make him understand that just because you've got some obscure relation to the higher power doesn't mean you can skip over your debts. Now get it done, I'm dog tired and want to skip out of here before the neighbors get home."

Freddy's mouth had gone dry.

His fingers twitched and his mind was racing and turning to a numb white noise seemingly at the same time. As his stare switched from the thief to the pathetic excuse for a human being, he felt his hand slipping back into the holster and removing his piece even as his mind picked up speed by ten fold, various possible scenarios running through at three thousand miles per second and four at a time as he weighed his options. In the end, how much would it really hurt if he did as told? He'd be likely fucking the guy up for life, and he'd never forgive himself for it, but if he refused, or gave away his cover, how much more would he be hurting? It was a junkie and his knees. His stomach flipped and rolled. It was a junkie and his knees. It was a man and likely his ability to walk. But there was the job, and now that he looked at this, it had to be a sort of test. Joe wouldn't send him to do this for no reason. Blonde wouldn't practically put the gun in his hand and tell him to shoot for no reason. They were seeing if he had guts. If he had the balls for this line of work. And sadly, he didn't think that he did. Freddy really didn't think that he did. He wasn't that kind of a guy. He wasn't the type of man who could swallow everything down and destroy another man for life. Over money. Something as fucking retarded as cash would cost a guy his ability to walk, and what for? To make a point? So other people would hear what had happened, and understand that either you got a favor and paid your debt or you avoided people like Joe Cabot as best you could?

No, he couldn't do it. He was a cop, but not a tough one. Not really. He liked to dream and pretend as much as the next guy. Liked to think he'd accomplish something heavy and badass and earn his gold shield, but he didn't have the stomach for it.

But maybe Orange did.

In fact, he was sure that Orange did.

"You think it really needs to be both?" He asked, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully even as he forced down his building guilt and nausea. "Kinda harsh for a first warning, innit?"

Blonde was quiet for a long minute, and then shrugged. "Whatever. One could work. But make sure it's the knee, don't pussy out on this and blow out his shin."

He nodded. And as Tommy turned pathetic terrified eyes on him, all Freddy could think was 'You idiot. I saved you a leg. I'm saving you a fucking leg so don't look at me like that. I did what I fucking could without making it worse for the both of us.' But even with the rationalizing with himself, and his desperate attempts to somehow miraculously telepathically relay the message into the junkie's mind and make him understand it was the only way and that he'd somehow helped him out in the end, nothing could assuage the wave of gut wrenching and spleen twisting guilt that ate through him as he raised that gun and leveled it at his target.

When they walked out and back down the ugly half stained stairs, Freddy didn't even notice the warm broad palm of Blonde's hand as he gave him a brief pat on the back. The loud shot of the gun, his gun, and Tommy's agonized screams were still ringing far too loudly in his ears.

***

"Where the fuck are you at?"

"Barely a fucking clue," Freddy breathed, pinching his nose bridge as he peeked over his shoulder to where Blonde was leaning against the car and taking long slow drags on his cigarette.

"Well take a fucking guess, man. Give me a general area so I've got something to work with."

"Ah," He stalled, eyes rolling upwards to stare through an old band sticker half scraped off of the phone box. "I think we're somewhere outside of Palm Springs. Give or take. Hundred and fifty miles to two hundred out at my best guess."

"…fifty miles is a big ass gap, man. Hell, your best guess. Knowin' you that means you're west and south of where you think you are and a good three hundred fucking miles out."

"Ah, c'mon man, cut me a break. He took some back roads on the way up. What the fuck do you want from me? This motherfucker just had me shoot out a junkie's fucking knee. I shot out a guy's knee. I nearly shit myself, man."

"What the fuck, Freddy? What the fuck are you doing out there?"

"It's a test, I think, I swear they're trying to feel me out. They wouldn't bring me out here for no fucking reason. I couldn't do anything else, man. He said shoot out the kneecaps and that's what I had to do. I haggled him down from both to one, but what the fuck was I supposed to do? If I'd pussied out on it he'd have thought I was either not gutsy enough or that something was up. I'm sorry man, but you told me not to break cover so I didn't break the fucking cover."

"Well duh, Mr. Fucking Obvious. Listen, just watch yourself out there. I want a full report when your ass is back in town. Watch your fucking back, you hear me? And for God's sake man, figure out where the fuck you are. Do you at least know where you were? Did you think to memorize the address, man?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, peeking over his shoulder again and seeing that Blonde was watching him calmly, Red Apple cigarette still pulled between his lips as he drew slow lazy drags off of it. Completely comfortable, totally sure of himself. They might as well have been on a road trip to fucking Disney land the man looked so fucking relaxed.

"Why you being so quiet? Speak up, Newandyke."

"Sorry man, but he's watching me. For all I know the bastard can read lips. Listen, run a check on the nickname Toothpick. The junkie called him that."

"Toothpick? What the fuck is that?"

"I dunno, man. Just run a check. I've gotta go, he says we're going to stay over night. Doesn't like driving late at night or some bullshit like that. I figure I'm pretty much as fucked as I can get right now."

"Yeah, yeah. Just watch your fucking back."

"I plan on it."

"Get off the phone, man."

"Alright, alright. Thanks honey, I'll see you when I get home." Freddy said, a grin twisting his lips a bit as he turned back around so the thief could see him speaking openly. "Love you."

"Fuck off, jackass."

"Bye-bye."

There was a hiss of breath on the other end as Holdaway hung up the receiver, and Freddy waited a moment, just staring ahead as a few seconds ticked by unnoticed before hanging the phone back onto the grime collecting cradle. The sun was almost setting now, the California sky turning yellow and gold with a hint of lavender in the opposite direction where dark was already beginning to settle. It was still warm, enough that there was sweat on his neck at his hairline, just moist enough to itch, and he rubbed a palm over the short hairs there as he started walking back towards the Caddy.

"So?" Blonde smiled, dropping the cigarette butt to the ground and stepping on it.

"She thinks I've run off to Reno with a woman named Cee-Cee to full fill my dreams of being an entrepreneur in the tiger breeding business. All Bengal, hoping for an albino. Albinos are worth a fucking fortune."

"Beautiful animals," Blonde chuckled. "Course, could tear your face off if you look at it wrong."

"Ah, and that's why we sell them off and get them into zoos and magic acts before they're grown. Like over sized kittens when their young. It's all good."

"I bet Cee-Cee will be proud."

"Hell yeah. I'll make an honest woman out of her, the little bitch."

Blonde smiled without showing any teeth and got back into the car.

***

The motel was a cheap one. Not that Freddy had really been expecting much, sure as hell nothing four star. Hell, not even anything two star. But it was definitely cheap. The neon on the sign flickered and buzzed, moths the size of pigeons hovered over the muddy yellow light and the parking lot had more pot holes than he could count. There was a bum asleep on the bus stop bench, an old ratty baseball cap pulled down over his eyes and nose as he dozed in the cooling but still muggy night. There was a girl across the street at a frozen custard stand, probably not a day over nineteen with her tank top tight over her taut little belly and a pair of denim shorts that rode up her thighs a quarter of an inch when she shifted her weight from foot to foot. It was hard to tell from the motel parking lot, but it looked like she was wearing heavy eyeshadow and had something sparkly in her hair.

The room itself matched the over all feel of the place. A bit musty, smelling like stale and fresh smoke alike, with an undertone of cheap air freshener having been sprayed recently. There were two beds, naturally, with a night table between them. Both were full mattresses. The wall paper was floral and ugly. The television was surprisingly recent, likely having been replaced only a few years ago, and the bathroom was debatable. Good enough to take a piss, definitely. Enough to be ambitious and try a shower? Highly unlikely.

Not that there would be any point in grabbing a shower. Neither of them had a change of clothes. Not even any deodorant or a toothbrush. It was uncomfortable, and on the odd side, but Freddy figured that he wouldn't mind much if he was a little riper than usual the next morning. It was kind of unavoidable without a change of clothes, and the fact that the motel air conditioner appeared to be about as reliable as the one in Blonde's car.

Getting comfortable was nearly impossible. The mattress of the bed he'd claimed for himself wasn't as firm as he'd have liked, and the lumpy springiness of it did nothing to help him settle. He'd kicked off his shoes and was on his back, hands folded behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling as he contemplated the wild day he'd had. Wild didn't even begin to cover it. He didn't have a word for it, nothing he could think of in his albeit limited vocabulary was enough to express what had happened and what he was feeling as a result of it. He'd cost some miserable little junkie his leg. Possibly. Who knows, maybe he'd pull through, but he likely didn't even have health insurance. How could he get something like that taken care of without any health insurance? And sure, it could have been a lot worse, it could have been both legs as opposed to one, but even with that reasoning to console himself it did very little to lighten the feeling that he could have possibly done more. He could have wised up and talked around the issue, drawn Blonde into a discussion and whittled down the punishment until it was something less grisly and with less of a long standing effect.

But he hadn't, and there was no way to change any of that.

Maybe for his job, his particular job as dictated to him by Holdaway, he had done the right thing. He'd kept his cool, he'd stayed in character and he hadn't killed anyone while doing so. But some little dipshit was left writhing and screaming on the floor of his living room as blood soaked through his jeans after Freddy stiffly allowed himself to be herded out of the apartment by a disconcertingly casual Mr. Blonde.

What kind of a name was Mr. Blonde anyway? Was blonde even technically a color? Maybe it was one of those things only a guy as old as Joe could understand.

Speaking of the former, there was a jostle of the door handle and a key being turned, and the tall brunette walked in, easy and smooth. He had a six pack tucked under one elbow and a greasy bag of take-out fisted in the other as he fumbled to slip the room key back into his pocket while he nudged the door closed with his foot. He seemed to abandon the effort with the key, and chucked it halfway across the room to land with a clatter on the night table, the metal gliding across fake wood before being forced to a halt by the lamp.

"When the hell did burgers and fries get so expensive." He said lightly, setting the six pack down on his bed before rooting through the bag. "Six cheeseburgers and two large fries. How much would you expect that to cost?"

"Four or five bucks?" Freddy guessed as he sat up. "Depends on the place, right?"

Blonde was nodding, though it seemed more to himself than to what Freddy had said. "S'about right. But this place? Wanted over seven dollars. More than seven dollars for some meat and cheese on stale buns." He started tossing the paper wrapped burgers to Freddy, who caught them with relative ease. "And you know what else? Bastards wanted twenty cents just for some extra ketchup."

"Bastards."

"That's what I said."

After that, they ate in silence. Each cracked open a beer and once he had stopped stuffing his face with grease and fried grease, Freddy returned to lounging back on the bed as he slowly nursed his beer. Blonde fiddled with the television from his place on the edge of his bed, flipping through the channels at a leisurely pace, every so often pausing to watch something, only then to continue surfing. The satiated fullness in his belly and the noise of the tv was enough that Freddy let himself relax a bit more, possibly even drifting into a light doze that he'd slip in and out of for the next hour or so.

Around midnight he snapped back awake. He hadn't so much been sleeping, and he could tell because he didn't feel rested and it didn't take much for him to get his bearings. He wasn't sure what had woken him at first, but Blonde had at some point stepped out of his own shoes and was watching something from the center of his bed, legs crossed Indian style. After a moment of watching the screen himself, Freddy figured that it was some kind of war documentary.

Taking a deep breath he got up, wrestled his shoes on and mentioned he was going to have a smoke outside. Blonde didn't acknowledge him, just sucked on his own cigarette as his eyes squinted through the smoke and locked on the television. It had just shown a rain of gunfire pelting through a Nazi jeep.

It was hard to tell, but he was pretty sure it was cooler outside than inside, air conditioning or not. The frozen custard stand had closed for the night and the girl was long gone, though the bum was still asleep on the bus stop bench. The buzzing of the neon coupled with the sounds of traffic and the whine of mosquitoes on the night air both calmed him and made the short hairs on his arm stiffen. An old pick-up truck rattled on down the road, and even in the dark he could see from the street lights that the muffler was going bad, a thick cloud of dark exhaust blooming behind the piece of junk even as it stalled at the light down on the corner.

Breathing deeply, Freddy leaned against the wall and crossed his ankles, bracing himself as he smoked. Despite having calmed down, the sheer normalcy of how the night had turned out, he couldn't shake the tense anxiousness he had. So far nothing had turned out like he'd been expecting, yet at the same time it was everything he should have been expecting. It was probably a sign of selfishness that he'd been so sure he was found out and about to be taken care of. Probably nerves too. Some days when he slipped in amongst those crooks he felt as sure of himself as had he been going home for Thanksgiving. Other days he was so close to tossing his cookies and wetting himself if one of the guys so much as looked at him. It felt like they'd see through him if they looked at him for too long. Hell, even with Mr. White. Scratch that, especially with Mr. White. He was playing a dangerous game, and he was getting too invested into the wrong aspects of it. He was playing by the rules but not really. It was nearly like cheating. One of these days he'd not hide something well enough, or he'd not have a good answer to something quickly enough. He'd mess up, not have a good enough lie, not hide his real feelings properly, or accidentally let something slip.

But despite the nerve wracking insanity of everything, he had to admit that aside from being bad motherfuckers, most of these guys were cool. Aside from the whole professional law breaker aspect, they even seemed normal. Hell, even Blonde, who made his skin crawl at moments for no apparent reason, was a charming son of a bitch. He was funny, down to Earth, but was willing to shoot out knees without even blinking. It was scary, but at the same time it was cool. The guy probably was popular in high school, might have even been a jock who had banged the prettiest girl. He didn't look like a crook, but at the same time he fit the into the profile like it'd been molded for him. Molded around him, even. Even a cop had to admit that that was impressive.

Vaguely terrifying, but still impressive.

Freddy breathed out, a small steady formation of small smoke rings escaping and dissolving on the air as they floated away, growing distorted and changing shape as they melted and disappeared altogether. The cigarette was almost at the end and losing heat, starting to give out, and Freddy did it a favor by stepping it out and putting it out of it's misery. He breathed in deep, the air warm sitting in his lungs and he spat on the concrete before going back inside.

Blonde had gotten up and though Freddy couldn't see him, he could see the light in the bathroom was on. Not paying it any mind, he toed back out of his shoes, and stepped on his heels to get them off easier. The television was still on, but the war documentary had been replaced by the local news channel. Just another depressing story of how a drunk driver had run over a little girl and kept going before the police caught up and forced him off the road.

"People these days." Blonde said from the doorway, and Freddy nearly jumped as he looked back over his shoulder and saw Blonde watching him. Or was he watching the television? It was hard to tell from the angle he was at. He was leaning, thick smooth arms crossed over his chest and his expression plain.

"The world's going to shit." Freddy replied with a shrug, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress. "Kids can't even cross the street without some jackass plowing them down."

"Yeah. But maybe they need to look both ways before crossing the street. Kinda hard to miss some drunken asshole going eighty." Blonde smiled, but it seemed like less of a smile and more like something that couldn't be named. Freddy wasn't sure what to call it, but it didn't look right. He got the feeling that not everything was what it seemed when it came to Blonde, and it was enough to make him nervous and anxious without any effort.

Not liking the returning tension in his shoulders, Freddy got another beer and cracked it open. Blonde seemed to get the same idea and got himself one before perching on the end of his bed and proceeding to stare at the TV again. Freddy didn't pay him much attention after that, more focused on nursing down the alcohol and calming himself down. He didn't even notice that the television had been clicked off until he'd glanced that direction and saw the blank dark screen, and Blonde watching him from under his dark even brows.

Unsure of what to say at first, Freddy refrained from saying anything. Just took another swig and stared back.

"What?"

Blonde smiled, slow and lazy like. It reminded him of the same smile the man had offered when he'd appeared outside of his apartment door that morning. It didn't even feel like it had only been that morning anymore. It felt like days had passed by and he hadn't noticed the changes from day to night. The rising and setting sun had been neglected and missed, and time had kept going on. It was disturbing, how charming that smile was. It probably made women weak at the knees to have a good looking guy smile at them like that. All old school charm and chiseled smoothed features. But despite it's charm, it was also probably among the most disturbing things that Freddy had ever seen.

"I think," the other man started, arms crossing thoughtfully and canting his head to the side. "That we're going to have to have sex."

There was no formulated response. Before he could squash it down, a small bubble of disbelieving laughter had escaped Freddy's throat, even as his eyebrows climbed up his forehead with shock and confusion. After the initial laugh, all he could do was stare, hand clasped tightly around the neck of his beer and mouth parted slightly, trying to think of what to say. What was there to say? He didn't know how to react to that kind of bullshit. Had it not been for the fact that he had a rather unpleasant feeling that there was some honest to God seriousness to what Blonde had just announced, then Freddy would have been convinced that it was some kind of joke. Might have even been a funny joke, had Blonde not been looking at him like that. Had they not been in a motel room about one hundred and fifty miles from where they should be. Had they not been alone, and that Blonde wasn't laughing. He was smiling, but it wasn't an 'I got you' smile. It was a queer odd little smile that said nothing and everything at the same time, and Freddy had no way of having a reaction to it. This had never been covered by Holdaway. There was never a briefing on what to do if one of the crooks propositioned you for sex. There was nothing to fall back on in his training to tell him how to react to this, and even in his own experiences he didn't know what to say to it. There was nothing to do but keep staring and wait.

"Cat got your tongue?" Blonde rumbled amicably, eyebrows rising expectantly. Prompting a response.

"You're shitting me." Freddy said, mouth still parted but his lips twisting into a hopeful and likely ridiculous looking smile. "You're shitting me, man."

Blonde chuckled and shook his head. As he stood up, Freddy felt something drop. It wasn't his heart plummeting down into his stomach like it had done so many times that day, but something, just an overall feeling of 'Oh, shit' as he watched wide eyed and disbelieving as Blonde walked over to him and stood looming down over him. He couldn't breathe, the air had escaped from his lungs and he hadn't noticed it until he watched, breath gone, as Blonde nimbly pulled the beer out of his hands and set it carefully on the night table. He was still smiling, looking more amused than he had all day, and his hands landed on Freddy's shoulders, the fingers squeezing gently and nearly massaging for a moment as he leaned down, leaned in close enough that Freddy could feel the small puffs of warm breath on his face.

"C'mon, kid." He murmured persuasively, a slight flash of teeth all the cop could see from his lower position. He leaned in closer, the hands on Freddy's shoulders growing firmer and forcing him to recline backwards so they could be face to face. "What else are we going to spend all night doing?"

"Uh," he articulated dumbly, eyes wide and stuck like a deer in headlights.

Blonde just chuckled, a low warm rumbling in his throat, and then he was pulling off his shirt.

***

Freddy wasn't even sure when his clothes had gotten removed from his body and discarded to the floor. There was a resistance at first, pointless small actions without enough strength to enforce them. When Blonde had started to press against him, he'd tried pushing his palms against the larger man's chest in an effort to keep him from getting closer. But this small effort, seemingly insignificant, was easily remedied. All Blonde needed to do was wrap his long fingers around Freddy's wrists and move his hands in a defining calm movement that managed to end their resistance and move them aside. Freddy was breathing through his nose, his thoughts were jumbled, his heart seemed like it was torn between beating too quickly and stopping altogether. When Blonde got in close, his skin warm and pressing against his own, it seemed like his heart stopped, unable to go on, but then it was hammering away in his chest, very nearly beating against his ribcage like a startled trapped bird. Trying to get away in blind panic, but only to crash and careen into walls with no escape to be found in the oppressive closed darkness.

The lamp was still on. Freddy was too aware of the light, and of the self consciousness that was making him nervous and giddy. The room was lit, enough that he could see the stubble on Blonde's face, see the freckles on his broad shoulders, see the smooth sculpted frame he possessed as he leaned in and crawled over him, scary smooth and graceful as a cat as he pinned Freddy down with his weight. He hadn't been this aware of his body in front of another man since high school, since the post gym class showers where all the guys did nothing but compare their builds and poke fun at the smallest and weakest. Freddy had never had a particularly impressive physique. He'd been scrawny as a kid, but filled out into wiry with age. Since becoming a cop he'd put on some more muscle, toned up a bit and shaped a smooth but still thin body, but compared to the man on top of him he probably had the figure of a skinny teenager. He was hyper aware of the height difference, he was put off by the sudden heavy weight on top of him, and he squirmed at first, not sure if he was trying to get comfortable or make Blonde less comfortable.

The end effect did nothing but leave him uncomfortable. He felt small and insignificant.

"I shouldn't -- I can't," He blustered, eyes squeezing shut and then opening wide as he felt the other man's dick pressing hotly against his thigh.

"Shouldn't why?" Blonde asked coolly, lowering himself down more and letting his mouth ghost across the shell of Freddy's ear with a small puff of warm air.

"Married." He said, voice rising an octave as Blonde began to shift and move against him, his face coloring and his eyes shutting once more as he tried to block out and ignore the warm pressure pressing down against his own piece.

There was a low chuckle. Dark. Perverted and warm, something you'd expect to hear coming from a porn star. "Just pretend my name's Cee-Cee." Freddy groaned and there was a second chuckle and a shift as Blonde began to sit up. Being straddled by a guy who probably weighed a good fifty pounds more than him, at the very least, did nothing for his existing discomfort. Freddy started to prop himself on his elbows. Blonde seemed to have other ideas though, and using nothing more than the flat palm of his hand he pressed down on the center of Freddy chest, forcing him to remain flat on the bed as Blonde sat up straight and looked down on him. It was a rather disconcerting perspective, to be looking up at the looming tower of unabashed tanned flesh and crown of dark hair.

The self consciousness didn't dissipate, on the contrary. With Blonde looking down him like that, just looking, staring down and studying him he felt more embarrassed than he thought he could possibly feel. It wasn't the same as going to bed with a woman and her wanting to get a look before the deed was done. This was slow, judging and appraising, a long heavy inventory being taken and Freddy couldn't help but think that maybe he wasn't meeting the quota in every aspect.

"Natural blonde?" The other smiled as his roaming eyes stilled over the nest of hair between Freddy's legs.

"Go to hell." He forced out in response, cheeks coloring a darker shade of pink. He swung his head to the side, trying to will the situation away, and instead all he could focus on was the window. The cheap curtains were drawn, but there was a gap where they should have met. A small, insignificant gap, maybe less than an inch wide but Freddy found himself staring at the small open expanse of window that escaped into the darkness of the night and realized that he hated that little gap. It was doubtful anyone would look in and see them, but the idea that someone could made his stomach roll. And not only the fact that it could be looked in on, but the fact that it seemed like that little gap was mocking him. His situation was not contained. There was a breach opening up into the rest of the world, and he despised it. It was his own surreal moment, between him and Blonde. It was private and frightening and exciting and unwanted, but there was a breach and the real world was being leaked into his surreal little bubble of sub reality.

Blonde started shifting his weight again, and Freddy's gaze was torn from the window and back up to the man on top of him. Blonde didn't say anything, just had that thoughtful look he got every so often, and seemed to be trying to decide what he wanted to do. He leaned back over Freddy a bit and his breath slowed, like prey trying to not attract too much attention to itself, and laid still as Blonde's broad hand placed itself on his hip, gently working the skin and thumb massaging the hard bone under the surface. Freddy swallowed slowly, his breathing seeming louder in the quiet room than he supposed it actually was. Blonde settled back over him, the hand on his hip squeezing and testing, then traveling lightly over his belly and it was all Freddy could do to stay still and not squirm, his ticklishness threatening to reveal itself. Large blunt fingers skimmed gently across his ribs and up the center of his chest, Blonde's other hand hanging limp at his side for a minute before slipping deftly between them. He didn't touch as boldly as Freddy had been anticipating, at least not initially. His touch was teasing, exploratory, progressing from nearly not touching at all to small smooth brushes of skin over skin. While his right hand trailed further upwards, thumb brushing over the knob of Freddy's Adam's apple and thereby making him squirm in discomfort, his other trailed downwards to the thatch of dark metallic gold curls nested at Freddy's crotch. Blonde still avoided direct touch, just skimmed finger tips over the wiry hairs and traced the triangular juncture of the reclining man's pelvis. Unable to stop himself, Freddy squirmed, hips shifting in the subtle but shameless manner of frustration with the indirect teasing. He turned his head away when Blonde expelled a small breath of amusement, his embarrassment and awkwardness with the situation still pressing down on him more heavily than he thought possible. Blonde's thumb had left his Adam's apple and traveled downward to smooth over the hollow of his throat, gently probing the dip in the flesh and making the cop strain his neck as if to jostle him away. Thankfully, he got the hint and his hand, pressing more firmly now, brushed its way back down his chest. The entire expedition couldn't have taken more than a couple of minutes, not even a handful of moments in time, but it had been enough to leave Freddy struggling to not fidget. Unfortunately, that also meant he was tense, and his legs were actually beginning to cramp from being held still so carefully and being pinned by the bulk of the other.

Without warning, Blonde switched tactics. While previously it had all been uncomfortable and intrusive, it hadn't been anything more than Freddy could handle. He'd been able to sit still, and aside from the slight discomfort, it hadn't been anything blatantly sexual. More sensual, like teenagers for the first time and just checking each other out. But that dissipated, gone like a flame being snuffed out by a stray breath, and Freddy's hips jerked and raised off of the bed, his breath catching in his chest as Blonde's hand wrapped itself around his dick, his grip firm, and began to pump him with expert precision. Freddy began to raise himself up again, hard to do when he still had the other man's weight holding him down by the legs, his own length long since swollen and erect only inches away and as Freddy looked, while trying not to look, Blonde's free hand went to his own piece and he fisted himself eagerly without modesty. It didn't take much, the touch alone had him hard and straining his hips upwards, blood rushing and making him swell hotly within Blonde's hand as he muttered senseless sounds of encouragement under his breath. It was perverse and the startling rush of arousal left Freddy feeling nothing more than guilty. Guilty for his own ability to be worked so well, to be turned on and pleasured by it when in his mind he knew not all of it was right. None of it was right. He wasn't against guys who wanted to be gay, he may have even gone there for experimental purposes before dropping out of college and joining the academy, but this, what was going on right now, it wasn't right. It didn't feel right, despite the fact that it felt good. There was a sick feeling in his head and gut, instinct telling him that it was wrong in some sense and he couldn't deny it as much as he'd like to ignore the misgivings for the sake of trying to enjoy what seemed to be happening regardless of what he had to say about it. It was just sex, that was the best he could tell himself. It was just sex, and if he focused on that aspect of it, he'd get through it without bursting a lung from nerves. If nerves could burst lungs. At this point, he was willing to bet that in his current feelings and state, anything like that could be possible. He certainly wasn't going to be doubting it.

Blonde lurched forward, removing his hand from himself and bracing it on the bed next to Freddy's arm as he slid his weight forward, pushing his pelvis until it was leveled with that of the body beneath him. Curious despite his concern, Freddy strained to see what he was planning, and watched cautious and wall eyed as Blonde changed his handling and pressed their dicks together, trying to wrap his hand around both shafts enough to keep them in contact as he rolled his hips forward. The thrusts were small, unhurried, more probing for stimulation than gratification. The actual feel of it was strange despite pleasurable and Freddy tried to push his hips upward but with Blonde's change in position, he was trapped under the other man's weight and unable to move. The most he was able to do was lay still, propped up on his elbows just enough to have a view of what was taking place at crotch level, and listen as Blonde made small half formed sounds of approval in his throat every few moments. As the momentum was built, Freddy couldn't deny his own approval, and small breaths became heavier, hitching when a particularly sensitive spot was touched, chest rising quicker, and despite his inability to actually move, the rather half assed effort to somehow rock his own hips. He was just glad that Blonde seemed more focused on the sight of their cocks pressed together than meeting his eyes, as if he had Freddy wasn't sure he'd have been able to look. The perverse indecency of it, the feeling of his privacy having been violated was there. It was sexual, but it was intrusive. It wasn't welcomed, but accepted reluctantly with little else to do other than be pliant and cooperative. Aside from his apparent inability to fight, he wasn't sure that he should. What would his resistance really achieve? He didn't know how badly Blonde was set on it, and even if he did, this was the man who was testing him. He'd probably be reporting to Joe how the little excursion had gone, and fighting with him, trying to throw him off, kicking him in the gonads, it would do nothing but make things go badly for him. He was stuck in a corner, backed into it. Instead sink or swim it was turning into sink or fuck. And fuck, Freddy figured he could pull that off. He may have been tense and limp at the moment, nothing more than a piece of driftwood with a hard on, but it wasn't painful.

Yet.

He may have experimented once or twice while stoned and too horny to know what to do with himself, but he'd never taken it up the ass. The realization that actual penetration, real fucking, was even Blonde's objective was enough to instill another leap of panic, leaving that heart of his fluttering desperately in his chest at mock speeds, searching desperately for a way out. But there was no way out. Cliché as it was, he was stuck, and he was just going to have to take it. Get into if he could, try not to cringe if something was too personal, and how could it not be? A raw fuck was a raw fuck, it was easy to let slide. But Blonde, something wasn't adding up. It was raw, but it was personal. Freddy didn't like the level intimacy that was present, it got under his skin and made him itch, it didn't belong within the situation. And the idea of actually getting fucked by a man who could be so invasive just with a small touch or a look was too much. He might have to take it if it came to that, but he could put it off. He didn't want that kind of intrusion, it would be more than just a fuck and he knew that it would. It would be breaking his walls, breaching his security, it would be more than he could handle. It'd be too much of himself. Blonde wouldn't be fucking Mr. Orange, uprising star in crime. He'd be fucking Freddy, Freddy the cop, the rat, and he didn't want that. He couldn't handle that. They could rub against each other all he liked, they could neck like teenagers if that was what he was into, but then, then Freddy could pretend that it wasn't him, that it was Orange doing all of that with Blonde. But if they fucked, actually fucked, it wouldn't be an even match. Blonde would still be Blonde, not whoever he actually was, whoever Toothpick really was, but Freddy would be Freddy and that was something he wouldn't be able see past. He didn't think Blonde truly was a person. He was exactly what he came off as, which was a veil with something unpleasant hidden behind the curtain. He was attractive, seemingly indulgent and harmless, but with the right lighting you could see the silhouette of something dark and repulsive lurking behind that cover patiently.

Freddy's veil was only so thick. The right lighting, the right tone of voice, the right look in his eyes could give him away. He could only be Orange on the surface, but whatever Blonde was, it ran deep. Deeper than blood and flesh, deeper than that smile or the way his eyes crinkled at the edges with mirth. Whatever the space cadet was, whoever he was, he was something Freddy doubted he'd ever see. All he had to go on was the shape, the barest teasing hint of what was hidden so effortlessly. He couldn't hide anything that well. Even just one fuck between them, while he could physically bare it, he didn't think his mind could. Perhaps it was irrational, but he knew that as soon as he had his face pressed down into those sheets, when his toes were curling, and when he had no real name to call out if he did manage to come and did get into the moment at the height of climax, that it wouldn't be his cover. It would actually be him, and he didn't want himself in that situation. It was between Mr. Blonde and Mr. Orange, and Freddy Newandyke refused to take any part in it.

This was why, he'd later tell himself, that he inelegantly allowed himself to fall back off of his elbows and allow himself the ability to use his arms in a productive manner. It was hesitant, and more than awkward, but he told himself that just lying still like a corpse would do nothing of benefit. Cautiously, more for his own conscience than anything more, he edged his hands forward and placed them palm down on Blonde's thick, muscle lined thighs. He grunted in acknowledgment, but continued his small, short thrusts, fumbling to brace himself upwards as he moved and struggling to keep their erections together with each move forward. Freddy avoided interference, just breathed with small, heavy huffs of weak encouragement, his palms brushing over the short hairs on Blonde's body as he studied and felt the shape of him. He was smooth as well as not grossly muscular, but the hard muscle was under the skin, firm and solid to the touch despite the initially soft flesh that covered it. Wetting his dried lips with the tip of his tongue as he considered his position, Freddy eased his hands up and down; nothing sexual in the gesture, purely enough to stimulate feeling. It was blatant reciprocation despite its subtlety. He repeated the action, up and down, trying to keep it relaxed while Blonde kept him pressed down into the mattress and he bumped and grinded. While pleasurable, it was an uncomfortable position, likely for the both of them, and it wasn't long before the initial enthusiasm that Blonde had demonstrated had bled away into the loss of momentum and the fact that pleasure had reached a frustrating plateau.

"Fuck," Blonde muttered, giving a few more shallow thrusts before slowing. Giving up and sitting back, arm leaving its braced position and giving him a chance to stretch it as he looked down between their two bodies, he made a low murmur of thought before sitting still. Freddy thought that he had preferred it when Blonde had been moving against him, as then it had been easier to forget his weight pushing down on him. With him quiet and still, his weight had turned into sheer painful heaviness, and he was sure he would later be bruised.

Seeing an opening, Freddy realized that if he was going to prevent a less desired outcome on his behalf that he'd need to act quickly.

Clearing his throat and gulping down a breath, he let his hands wander back up Blonde's thighs and rest on his hips. He received a small grunt in response to the contact, and taking that as encouragement, he brushed his thumbs softly over the sensitive skin of the man's waist. "C'mon," he said quietly, shifting impatiently under the thief's bulk, "You're crushing me, man." He fell quiet again, risking a small look from where he'd been staring rather evadingly at Blonde's chest and up to his face. The expression was unreadable. Small teasing hints; eyebrows quirked down thoughtfully, mouth a straight line but slightly parted, eyes heavy. Considering? Maybe. He gave the impression of possibly mulling something over, and after an instant had slipped by, he seemed to also draw a conclusion.

Freddy watched with bated breath as Blonde's weight shifted over him once more, and he moved his legs thoughtlessly as his ability to move was momentarily restored to him. But he didn't have a chance to get comfortable, as rather than getting up off of him, Blonde was changing his position, leaving the straddling pose he'd been maintaining and changing entirely, now stretching out over Freddy's body and lying down atop of him. Wiggling with momentary discomfort, Freddy tried to change the arrangement of his legs but his progress was interrupted when Blonde settled his hips down between them, getting in snug as he sprawled out, face leveled with Freddy's own. While he'd thought it unnerving to have the man bearing down on him before, having him right in his own face was even worse, and Freddy couldn't resist his desire to turn his face away, at least for the time being. The change, while still uncomfortable in the general sense, was less painful, and he was able to squirm and settle as he pleased, without direct interference from Blonde. His arms were unfortunately misplaced though, and he struggled to decide what to do with them. It'd be nothing less than his previous reluctance and unresponsive attitude to just let them lie flat on the bed, and they'd be awkwardly placed to avoid Blonde's elbows. The only other option was to rest his hands on Blonde's back, and with some initial hesitance, he finally did so. It wasn't long before Blonde began to move again. The bumping and thrusting movement now ended in more pressure on both of their dicks, raw flesh pressing in on all sides, rubbing every sensitive part and eliciting small heavy breaths from each of them. Blonde's head ducked in, his mouth pressing down on Freddy's own, and the kiss caught him off guard. He tried to pull back, mostly out of shock, and turned his head away, forcing the seeking mouth away. Blonde wasn't daunted though, nor did he force the issue, simply continued the lazy, searching roll of his hips. As the momentum built, Freddy slowly forgot about the kiss, and allowed his head to loll back to it's previous position. It wasn't long before the mouth was pressing down on his own again, a probing tongue gently sliding across his lower lip, pressing firm but gentle as it pried open Freddy's mouth with it's sheer persuasiveness and sought entry. It wasn't long, it was just a kiss, and Freddy didn't even think as his mouth opened, just a hair's breath wide and the foreign tongue slipped stealthily in, gently exploring his teeth and palette before meeting his own, rolling together wetly and warm as the kiss itself gained strength on both ends. The lips were soon crushing together, hard enough to raise blood and leave both pairs red and swollen, Freddy's eyes long since fallen shut but Blonde's still open, crinkled at the edges as he studied the soft blonde lashes that lined the other man's eyes.

There had been a part of him that had wondered, possibly even hoped, that once his eyes were shut he'd be able to block out who was actually on top of him. While it wasn't outwardly terrible, not in the sense that he was forced or that the other guy's mouth tasted bad. But there was a defining surreal-ness. It was difficult to get past, and even with his eyes shut and his dick hard and his tongue twisted and writhing against another, he couldn't pretend that there was someone else. There was no way in hell he could fool himself into thinking that maybe he was rutting on top of the sheets with a woman, no way that he could think of that girl who'd been across the street only a few hours back and pretend that the weighty bulk on top of him had been her fit little form. He couldn't pretend it was any woman he'd ever been with. He couldn't pretend it was that red haired guy with the green eyes he'd gotten stoned with and made out with once upon a time. He couldn't pretend and tell himself anything. It was Blonde. The presence, the sureness, the unrelenting reality of it in itself was surreal. It was unreal. Blonde was a force of himself, his skin against his own was electric, his smell invaded his nostrils and forced him to acknowledge the masculine odor of him. He had to face the stubble scraping against his cheeks and chin, he was to relent and admit to himself that, yes, his hands were sliding over a decidedly male body and that his nails were digging into the tender yet firm skin of a man. Not just any man. Blonde. Everything about him was a reminder of who he was. It was endless. There was no sweet ignorance to fall back upon, there was nothing to delude himself, to sweeten the moment, to change it to something that didn't leave him dizzy and conflicted. There couldn't be any relief from it, it was all encompassing, and even with his eyes shut, tightening by the desire to will the person whose lips he grappled with his own into to someone else, anyone, even a flash in his mind making his thoughts fall to Mr. White for one split second, he was then left with the disappointing understanding that there could be no fooling himself. He had to take everything as it was, as there was no other way to take it. To try to will it into anything more would just lead to disappointment.

"Fucking hell," Blonde grunted as he and Freddy took a breather, each feeling the effects of beard burn as they both twisted and wiggled against each other, the momentum building but reaching a point that while intense, would not bring satisfactory climax. "Fucking hell, kid." He was panting, his breath hot and heavy. "I'm going to fuck you. Fuck you into the mattress." He tried to press another painfully hard kiss onto Freddy's mouth, but anticipating it, he turned his face away leaving the harsh lips to press roughly against his jaw.

"No," he managed out, fingernails digging down into the skin of Blonde's sides. "I don't do that, man. Not happening." He hefted his legs apart a bit, forcefully trying to shift his position, and it was met by Blonde refusing to move, four legs all trying to find a place but neither pair willing to give any slack and allow free movement.

"Fuck that." Blonde breathed, teeth scraping against Freddy's jaw and down his neck.

Thinking for a split second, Freddy gave a small moan, wanton and teasing, more than purposeful, and rolled his own hips upward, meeting Blonde's less than rhythmic thrusts with his own eagerness. The reaction was small, but noticeable, a small "Mmmph." uttered from the larger man's throat, almost thoughtful again. Everything about him, even rutting like a couple of drunken dogs, and he was still considering. Quiet, reasonably collected, slow and leisured even in the middle of building passions.

"Fine," he said, voice getting throaty as he began to sit up. Freddy suppressed the urge to sigh in relief. "But then you're going to suck me off." Freddy's heart jumped back up into his throat, and Blonde raised himself up, not sitting properly upright but bracing himself up on his hands, like half way into position to start doing pushups. He was poised over Freddy, looking down into his face with that same quirked brow and the quietly inquiring eyes, suspended over his face and somehow invading his space more than when his tongue had been halfway down his throat. "I want to see you on your knees."

He hadn't known he'd even spoken a response until he heard himself saying "Okay," and his own voice sounded foreign to his ears.

He couldn't decide if this was progress or not. While he'd have been happy to just keep his position until they both came and Blonde could relocate to his own bed, he figured that sucking a guy off had to be better than getting fucked in the ass. Either way it was a pretty clear message.

The message being that he was the bitch, apparently.

Blonde getting up off of him and himself getting up off of the bed likely only took a few measly seconds, but in his mind it had been something that stretched on for an eternity. His heart was thudding in his ears, his pulse was loud and heavy, he was more aware of the squeaking springs of the bed than he thought was healthy. The loss of the other body left his warmed skin feeling cold, even in the warm room, and he was twice as aware of his nakedness when he was standing up. He was embarrassed. He couldn't help but glance at the window, that small gap in the ugly curtains still managing to mock him, even after it felt like so much time had passed, even while it had actually only been ten or fifteen minutes at the most. Blonde was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his neck, first staring off into space was easy self assuredness before looking back and seeing that Freddy's eyes were on him. His lips quirked into a smile and shamelessly, he winked. For a brief moment, Freddy couldn't decide if he should laugh and the ridiculous innocence of the gesture or slap him. In the end, all he could accomplish was a half hearted quirk of his own lips before he had no choice but to stop wasting time and lower himself down into a kneel between Blonde's spread knees.

He may have never sucked someone off before, but he'd been on the receiving end frequently and had watched enough porn to know the technique. But to say that he was prepared to put a dick in his mouth was a stretch. Perhaps it was immature, but there was a part of him that quite simply was a bit grossed out. A dick was a guy's best friend, but it was also probably one of the most disgusting body parts he had. The fact that women were such troopers and willing to suck one down was something that Freddy had always respected them for. Even faggots, real ones, while they got ragged on as much as they did, you had to respect them. If they were willing to choke a cock down, then that took some serious balls and possibly a lack of a gag reflex. Not to avoid choking on the organ itself, but to avoid getting nauseated by the act itself and having an impromptu hurling session.

It was probably one of the least erotic things Freddy had ever been faced with doing, and he'd done some pretty brave shit. Nothing dangerous and particularly nasty, but if the right girl asked, he'd go down on her. And if he was in the mood and so was she, he'd try some of the more experimental positions.

But sucking dick? Once again he found himself outside of his typical comfort zone. In all honesty, it was an oddly fitting end to the insanity that his day had so far proven to be.

In the back of his mind, he vaguely wondered how that would look on his official write-up to Holdaway: Suspect and I checked into motel for the night. Night progresses as expected, with take out and minimal speaking. Suspect initiated sexual relations late into evening and I sucked his dick to maintain good relations.

Yeah right.

And Holdaway was probably one of the most inappropriately un-erotic thoughts he could have possibly been having at that particular moment. It did absolutely nothing to help him get motivated, particularly so considering he was face to crotch with Blonde, and the other man was just sitting there waiting. Taking his goddamn time, unrushed and patient for the show to start when it was ready. A part of Freddy considered for the shortest second just punching him the dick, getting his clothes and walking the fuck out. It wouldn't even necessarily be breaking cover, it'd be simply what it was. A guy who was too overwhelmed with the situation getting fed up and getting the fuck out. Nothing cop-like about it. Hell, Freddy or Orange, either way, it was a reaction that could be totally reasonable on both ends.

But that still didn't stop him from wrapping his hand around Blonde's shaft.

The act itself only drew out a small murmur of approval, but it was a start. From what Freddy could recall of about every blowjob he'd ever gotten and from very nearly every porno he'd ever seen, the person sucking didn't just go straight for it. They worked their way up to it, like building the suspense for the guy on the receiving end. They used their hands, coy looks, then maybe graduated to a teasing lick to the head. While he sure as hell wouldn't be offering any coy looks for anybody, present or not, he could get the idea from that. He found a good grip, firm but loose for maximum ability, and started with slow steady pumps of his fist, easy with a slow pace. You could probably have been able to count the pace, count to one you're at the base, two you're at the middle of the shaft, three you're brushing a taunting thumb over the head. Repeat. It was easy enough to just practice as though he'd been jacking himself off, the action was second nature, well known to any male human being age eleven and up. It was a natural measure, an easy one to fall into, and it was easy to let his mind wander as he worked the rod. He could think about other things, try to ignore that it wasn't his own dick his hand was on, try to will himself to let the situation dissolve away as he daydreamed about nothing in particular. But even this small innocent attempt at escape was easily foiled. In a matter of maybe a minute, perhaps two if he was generous, Freddy was pulled from his thoughts by a warm hands cupping the back of his skull, the fingers working into his hair and massaging the scalp, very nearly tender. But then the hand was pushing, firmly guiding his head forward, and even as he placed some slight resistance, the hand just added a small boost of strength that forced his resolve away and his head was dipping down to replace his hand.

It wasn't quite as gross as perhaps he'd been imagining. It took a moment, to get himself prepared in the mental sense, but as he ran his tongue over the head, the beginnings of a cringe threatening to twist his features, and it struck him that it didn't taste bad. It was like what it smelled like. Skin. Just skin, sensitive and thin, and it draw a rumbling murmur from Blonde somewhere above him as he tried to do what he recalled any bed partner of his doing. He was working from memorization. But regardless of his lack of experience, his dedication to what he assumed the appropriate steps were was rather impressive. Blonde seemed to agree with it, his breath hitched every few seconds, and then he'd breath out one long breath of contentment. His hand was still in Freddy's hair, hugged against his scalp, the hand holding him loosely in place, giving him just enough slack to be able to turn his head as need be but not to be able to pull back. His fingers were warm, burrowed down and stroking the scalp with broad flat fingertips, the act probably without thought but out of simple reflex. Freddy didn't know where Blonde's other hand was, and he really didn't care, he was more focused on trying to do what had been asked of him, and while he had gotten over his initial hesitance, he was still reluctant to actually take the leap and trying to swallow the prick down. He'd seen so many women gag, even when not even deep-throating. Just as simple as their reflex kicking in and rejecting the obtrusion invading their space. But as he wrapped his lips around the tip, adding a little experimental suction, he felt that guiding hand on the back of his head adding pressure and forcing him to ease down, taking in some of the length. Thankfully Blonde didn't push too much, gave him time to adjust, to be wary of what he did with his teeth and trying to regulate his breathing through his nose. But there was another nudging push, careful and balanced, and Freddy relented, taking in another inch, slowly, and then another, eyes watering as he fought the urge to gag and his throat and chest tightened with the effort of keeping from doing so. It was difficult, and his own dick was hard and forgotten as he tried, the hand guiding him down just a bit further before stopping altogether, and while he was not actually throating the length, he had very nearly all of it within the warm cavern of his mouth. He was forced to breath the musty scent at the base, his nose tickled by coarse hair nestled at Blonde's crotch. The sheer masculine smell of him was forced on Freddy. It was nearly nauseating with its intensity, but he kept his head cleared and shifted his knees, head bobbing as he tried to return his focus.

He'd thought that it had been difficult going down, but coming back up was just as difficult, if not worse. It re-stimulated his gag reflex, but even as he recovered, he also understood that he'd be fighting it again as he went back down. The moment, while challenging, was not as erotic as it could have been. His enjoyment was lacking while Blonde's was quite plentiful, and his own arousal was decreasing. But getting it over and done with, getting the man off was what he need to focus on, and he was working on it, his eyes watering again and the tears threatening to escape as he bobbed his head back down, trying to find a rhythm as he avoided gagging around the other man's cock. As he picked up speed, and as he willed himself to relax, he found that it became easier. He still had to be careful for his sake and to watch his teeth, but as he became more comfortable, and he didn't need to fight with his own internal reflexes, it grew a reasonable pace. Blonde's murmurs had turned to short grunts, the fingers in his hair flexed and tightened, occasionally a small painless tug which Freddy tolerated. He took it, he leaned into it, he closed his eyes and worked for it. How many times had he been called a cocksucker since his teenage years? Plenty. As any man had. But here he was, on his knees in a cheap motel, sucking down some thief whose real name he didn't even know. It was incredible. It was laughable. And as he worked, secretly pleased with the progress he'd made in only a handful of minutes, he also realized that he was getting hard again. He didn't know where the arousal came from, or even really wanted to know where it came from, but it was there. His cock throbbed between his legs, but he couldn't focus on sucking off Blonde and servicing himself at the same time. Perhaps the arousal came from the sounds Blonde was uttering, grunts and gusty huffs of raw breath, or maybe it was the blunt head of the cock in his mouth as he forced it down as his head lifting and falling with a steady but quickened rhythm, or maybe it was sheer insanity. Insanity that seemed to have driven every moment of his day, insanity that was leaving him giddy and dizzy, his pulse fast and hot, his skin prickling with sweat as it beaded on his skin as the air conditioner struggled to blow cool air in the background, the whine of the occasional car from the road managing to slip under the crack of the door and through the walls and window and into the room, leaving the sheer perverse impression of the acts being committed nearly engraved onto the walls and tattooed into the hides and minds of the participants.

Blonde's other hand has relocated from where ever the hell it had been and onto Freddy's shoulder. The palm was hot, nearly searing the skin of Freddy's body as the thumb smoothed across the flesh, gently rubbing and encouraging as the breathy huffs from above became more frequent and more erratic, losing any semblance of predictability. The man's knees were quivering, opening a bit further, hips pushing forward and catching Freddy off guard, very nearly choking him though it was impossible to tell how purposeful it had been or if it had simply been an action lost within the rising pleasure the man seemed to be experiencing. Freddy was trying to focus on what was expected of him, forcing himself to pick up the pace and try to go a bit faster, but doing so did nothing but disturb that damn reflex again, and then he was gagging. Gagging around Blonde's dick and still trying to force him down his throat at the same time. He didn't even care about the embarrassment of the situation any more, he didn't care if someone looked through that fucking gap in the curtains and saw his ass and back as he kneeled, or saw his head bobbing up and down between Blonde's spread legs. He didn't care, because by tomorrow he'd be in his own apartment, in his own bed, working on a report of what he had done out of town while in company with the crook. And when it was done, he was going to put on his shoes, wait for the call from Holdaway, and then they were going to meet up. And he was going to tell him everything that happened, except for this. Hell, he might even add this in the oral discussion, but only as a joke so Holdaway could mutter something darkly, roll his eyes and tell him to grow the fuck up. That was what he was going to do tomorrow, and because of that, he didn't give a flying fuck about what was going on right at that second.

All of a sudden he felt the hand in his hair pulling, pulling him upward quickly and off of the dick, his mouth watering and dripping with the saliva that had built up as he pulled back, Blonde's hands leaving him, and sitting back just in time to narrowly avoid getting a jet of hot white ejaculate in the face. Narrow being the key word, as he'd tilted his upper body to the left, and still got some on his shoulder and Blonde groaned low and pornographic like, coming long and hard. It could have been disgusting, it could have been hilarious, it could have been a lot of things but at that moment, Freddy felt absolutely nothing but indifferent to it. A moment passed, heavy silence as they both breathed heavily, the air thick and rank with the stench of sex, and then Blonde's hands were grabbing him by the forearms, forcing him to stand up with his knees still aching from his kneeled position, and he was pulled close. Close and snug up against Blonde even as he sat, standing between his still spread legs, his steadily softening prick pressed against his thigh, and then before he could even formulate a reaction, that warm large hand was around his own piece again. It was working him like it had earlier, but the slow unhurried rhythm had dissipated, and while still steady, was now quick, perhaps a little bit rough, and enough to make his hips jerk forward in response to each pump. He fucked Blonde's fist, and when he came, he shuddered as his body sagged heavily, practically sitting down on Blonde's lap.

He breathed slowly, his throat burning, and as they both climbed down from their mutual climaxes he stared off across the room, above the man's head, at the wallpaper pattern.

He couldn't help but think that it really was very ugly.

***

"So we're driving around for hours. And when I say hours I don't mean it was like that annoying drive you have to make up to see Grandma once in a fucking blue moon, I mean it took for fucking ever. It was hot, I was sticking to the seat, the guy had royally shitty taste in music and for straight hours it's just sitting in the heat in this crappy old car, trying to not suffocate on how fucking bad it all was. I swear there were probably coyotes gnawing on dead crows on the edge of the highway that were having a way better time than I fucking was. So we're in this car, driving down to where we need to go, it just seems to never end. Didn't help I thought I was gonna die, y'know. Oh, you laugh now, but had you been there you would have been the same as me. It was fucking terrifying. Just this quiet son of a bitch in the seat next to me, driving me who knows where, and all I could think was, Jesus, Freddy, you might be on your way to dying. How the fuck did this happen? And then of course there's that recap, your mental backtrack as you try to think back on every possible thing that could have led up to the moment. I mean everything. Not even things specifically related to the job, I mean shit spanning back over years, back to grade school and when your third grade teacher Mrs. Mulligan asked "What do you wanna be when you grow up, Freddy?" and all bright eyed and innocent like you piped up "I wanna be a police officer!" But really you didn't want to be a police officer at all, you said you wanted to be a fucking astronaut, but you have to have money and brains and to have real dedication to pull that shit off and you have to be able to pass a fucking piss test. Sure, you gotta do that as a cop too, but let's be honest, it's just between us, how fucking easy is it to get around one of those in this day and age? It's a piece of fucking cake.

"I'm getting off track here. The fact is, you're thinking back, and it seems like every damn thing in your life led up to that moment, and you're ready to piss your fucking pants. You're scared. Dead fucking scared. Nervous, tense, you fucking name it. It gets up under your skin, settled down in your belly like a rock and you're just sick with it. But you don't want that mother fucker next to you to know any of that. You have to keep your cool. You have to keep yourself from sweating, keep your head on tight and just go with the fucking flow. But even then you don't know what the hell is going to happen or if you're about to say a prayer and meet your goddamned maker. But as it turns out, I was worrying for nothing. I was the last guy who should have been worried. It was the guy we dropped in on who needed to be scared, and you can bet your ass as sure as you're sitting there that he was. You could have smelled it on him. Fuck, I could smell it on him. He was pathetic. He was just some average crack head, got in with the wrong bunch of guys, probably wished he'd stayed in school and stayed away from the drugs. He was so fucking pathetic. I felt so bad for him. Sure, he was a scumbag, but he was just some guy who got caught up in some bad shit. And you know what? I was the one who fucked him over. Sure, I had to, I was put up to it by the cheeky son of a bitch I was with, but it was still me. It was my gun. It was my finger on the trigger. Some poor piece of shit got the sharp end of the stick, and I got a good referral. Crazy how that works out, innit?

"After? What about after? Oh yeah, I know, we didn't come right back. Apparently Blondie doesn't like driving late at night, I dunno. I think more than likely he just wanted to hang out and chill after getting the job done. We stopped at this real cheap motel, got some food, got some beers, just sat up most of the night getting wasted and watching TV. Nah, we didn't really talk. Nothing deep. Idle chit chat, nothing much more. He was a smooth guy. Classy but street savvy, y'know? I'll be working with him but not him directly. It's kind of weird how this whole deal is set up. Yeah, don't you worry, I'll be keeping an eye on him. I'm there, I'm watching him like a hawk, you can fucking count on that. If he let's anything slip, you know I'll catch it. Why? C'mon man, you know me. I'm the fucking man, you know that. I'm fucking Baretta and I'm on him so good I might as well be sucking his dick."


End file.
